Change of Heart
by Neko Kuroban
Summary: What if Zidane’s intent for going to Alexandria had been different? If instead of merely kidnapping the Princess and heir to the throne, he were to kill her?
1. Chapter One

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Final Fantasy IX nor do I claim ownership in anyway. The **plot** and  original character's I do use in this story (Angelo, Nina, Cassandra, et cetera) are mine, as is Trenton, but why would anyone else want to use them/it?

**Summary:** What if Zidane's intent for going to Alexandria had been different? If instead of merely kidnapping the Princess and heir to the throne, he were to kill her?

**Pairing:** Zidane/Dagger

Change of Heart

**By: Neko Kuroban**

The pale-haired waif knelt in the center of the inn's tavern, a soaked rag clenched tightly in her hand as she worked. The sun filtered through the grimy windows of the old, rundown building, throwing dusty patches of light onto the wooden floor. The girl flicked back a strand of fair hair that had come loose from the crimson-dyed scarf that she had used to tie her long, straight hair back, and submerged the hand holding her rag into the bucket of soapy liquid before starting to scrub at the floorboards again. Then she sighed softly, allowing the scrap of brown cloth to fall out of her tired right hand. 

A creak coming from the stairs caught her attention, she turned her head slightly to see her older brother, Angelo, leap down the last several, and the corners of the girl's mouth twitched into a smile. "Nina!" He grinned broadly. "I already finished upstairs! Are you almost done down here?"

The siblings were separated by five years (his nineteen years to her fourteen) and though they looked somewhat alike - they shared the same white-blonde hair, small mouths and slanted, small hazel eyes - he had bronzed skin from his travels and a noble look to his face, whilst she had pale, ashen features and a strange, constantly suspicious and distrusting demeanor that would be better fitting of the local "tavern wench", as some brass, not to mention drunken soldiers from other lands called the shifty-eyed barkeeper, who's business had caught fire quite some time ago. Nina and Angelo's personalities differed greatly as well. He was always the go-getter, pouring his heart and soul into everything, almost more-so since the death of their parents. Nina was the sorrowful romantic, and it bothered her even more than him. Why couldn't _she get over things as easily? Why couldn't __she be more optimistic? Why couldn't _she_ be less cynical? Why couldn't _she_ be more attractive? Why couldn't __she be more like him?_

"Not quite." She answered softly, resuming cleaning once more. "Are you leaving now?" She looked at him inquisitively.

"Yeah." He flashed another charming grin, raking a hand through his thick hair and his eyes twinkling slightly as they constantly did - a result of his almost perpetual good mood.

Nina's eyes, framed by short, completely colorless lashes, narrowed. _'He got the looks, charisma and the luck in this family, I have to make do with the brains…'_ She nearly snorted to herself in mirth at that. Though she could read fine – their grandmother, on her father's side, had taught her to read – her ragged, painstakingly formed handwriting bore all too much testament  to the fact that she had never had a day of formal education in her life.

She gave him a small smile, despite her petty jealousy, she still loved him – he was the only blood-relation she had alive in this world. "Have a nice time."

"I will!" Angelo promised; he was already opening the door. He slipped out gracefully, and it closed loudly behind him.

She looked around the room, wondering. Angelo hadn't lived with the family for several years, he had been married off at seventeen to a beautiful young lady named Cassandra, before their once-prosperous family had been buried in debt. 

Their household had been ruined in a single journey, when the ship her innkeeper-turned-merchant father was traveling on was shipwrecked in the midst of a rough storm. There were no survivors. Her mother had been forced to sell most of the furnishings – here Nina bit her lower lip to stop the hot tears forming, remembering how her mother had developed a terrible fever shortly after, leaving her and Angelo orphaned, and the young man's inheritance worth naught. Even so, Angelo and Cassandra had taken pity on the girl. 

Through all of the trials, the family still had the old inn, which hadn't been used for years and was on its last legs. The former tavern was located in Trenton, a small, slightly disreputable town on the very boundaries of  Alexandrian territory that was well-known for attracting odd, shady characters. Nina didn't mind, she usually found the land interesting, and had a keen sense of knowing who to avoid.

The door opened, and she flinched, her limbs tightening. She had never enjoyed being snuck up on while thinking.

"Hello?" The voice was young, and velvety. 

Nina stood up slowly, using the surface of the nearest table as an aid, and turned to see a cloaked figure standing in the doorway. 

Noticing her scrutiny he – it had definitely been a him, the voice was indisputably male – seemed to shrink back into the folds of his crude black garment.  "Is this place even open?" He asked, that rich voice of his laced with amusement. 

"Yes it is," She curtsied politely, in the Alexandrian style, lifting the hem of her straight skirt to reveal ordinary boots. "I'm very sorry for the mess," She apologized quietly.

"How much for a room for the night?" 

"Ten gil, if you want to share. Fifteen for one to yourself." The girl answered firmly. 

The stranger pushed back his cape and, reaching into a leather pouch attached to his belt, counted out ten brass coins, and set them on the table. "By the way," He began, a dark gray gloved hand toying with the flap that kept his pouch closed, "Is there any way I could have a room to hold a meeting with a few…" The man paused, obviously searching for the right words, "Friends?" 

"What kind of room do you need?"

"Somewhere where no one can hear us. Away from prying eyes..."

Nina blinked and rubbed the back of her neck, "You could use our wine cellar…it should be big enough."

He seemed to consider for a moment then answered, voice full of relief, "That would great, Miss...?"

"Nina." She answered decisively, still wondering _why_ such a person would wear a cloak on such a sunny afternoon. She _almost shrugged, then decided against it, reaching into her pocket for an iron-wrought key, "First door on the right side of the stairs."_

She could tell he was smiling at her as he accepted it, "Thanks."

**To Be Continued…**

Author's Note: Sorry! I just wanted a good way to introduce the town of Trenton, and what kind of people live there…And, tell me if you think Nina is Mary Sue…I didn't want her to be, even though she's probably not going to have too big a role in this fic (she's mainly a plot device, to explore the town, and other's interactions with Zidane in this AU fic) but…Anyway, please leave a review!


	2. Chapter Two

**Author's Notes: **Finally! An update! Special thanks to Dalamar, LeFox, Eika, PJPrincess, Isis50, and Noacat for reviewing!

So, as always, read and review.

**Change of Heart**

**By: Neko Kuroban**

**Chapter Two:**

**Planning**

The flickering candle light did nothing to dispel the shadows that beat away at the stone-walled chamber and the youth's bronzed face. The meeting had gone on much longer than he had expected, but now the rest of the group had departed, and the thick, rose - colored candle had been reduced a tiny pink stub amidst a pool of hardened wax. Amidst the dying light, Zidane leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs so they lay on the surface of the makeshift table. His mind was still reeling from the information. _'Why the Princess of all of Alexandria?' _he could not help but wonder.

He had a rough sketch of the girl on a crumpled sheet of parchment – Cinna had done a nice job copying it exactly from a recent portrait of Princess Garnet that had been sent to Regent Cid as a gift, and displayed in Lindblum. Zidane remembered seeing the gilt-framed portrait. The young noblewoman was lovely, with long raven-colored hair, and a small smile playing at her full, sculpted lips, but, though it was missing in Cinna's sketch, the girl's eyes were full of a rare kind of sadness. The kind not uncommon to that of a caged bird.

He knew exactly what he was supposed to do, the plans were simple. The princess was to retire at ten o' clock to prepare for her midnight speech. He was to catch her in the hallway, by any means necessary, though Zidane's charisma and chard would make it much easier than using force, and to take her into an empty corridor, out of ear shot and away from prying eyes, then complete the job: assassinate the princess. The queen, her guests and her guards should all be distracted by the show  - "I Want to be Your Canary" the most popular play in Alexandria, showing in honor of the eve of the princesses sixteenth birthday – to notice Garnet had never returned until the clock chimed midnight.

Zidane hurriedly swallowed back the unsettling, nauseous feeling that rose in his throat and twisted his stomach as he stood up. He stared at the picture before him, roughly tracing the subject's sketched jaw line with his thumb. Pulling away, he folded the paper and shoved it into the back pocket of his loose, faded blue pants. 

'_Why her?_' the question was the only thing keeping the golden-haired youth tied to the here and now. The rest of his thoughts were either buzzing through his head, or pounding away at his skull, all clamoring to be heard.

Finally, one thought penetrated, '_Air. I need air._'

Suddenly feeling very claustrophobic, Zidane hastily crossed the small, stone-walled chamber and climbed up the rickety wooden ladder. Once at the top, he shoved one of the heavy oak double doors that blocked off the wine cellar from the outside open, using his tail to maintain balance of the ladder. He grunted slightly under the weight – he hadn't left the doors open, not wanting their plans to be overheard. 

The comfortable night air did him some good, the cooling breeze gently sweeping his bangs across his roguishly handsome face. His hand moved to the flask attached to his belt, and he took a long sip, draining the container.

The night was calm, and quiet, though the loud laughter and talking, mingled with the occasional song, coming from the inn's tavern proved that people were still about, even this late at night. The leaves of the tree he stood beneath rustled faintly in the gentle breeze. The night was cloudy, but silvery moonlight occasionally peeked through faint, rare breaks in the dark clouds.

He considered returning to the inn before deciding to wait outside just a little bit longer - the wine cellar was detached from the building. Nina had, almost proudly, explained to him, when she had showed him the small chamber him there and helped him straighten it up, even letting him bring a table and a few chairs in their, that the small room was once a basement to a uncompleted tower, at a fort that had been destroyed during a war hundreds of years ago. The original fort had been on the property the inn now stood on, but had been set on fire. The tower – what little had been built of it - had stood for years, but was eventually worn down by the weathering, until it had been outright ruined when Nina's father built the inn before he became a merchant.

Zidane's thoughts drifted to the 'meeting' if one could even call it that. Something was definitely amiss about this. Their client, oddly enough, hadn't arrived, only sent an unsigned message with a bribed foot-soldier for the Alexandrian army that had been guarding the borders.  After reading the note, the usually loud and booming Baku had been white-faced and tense, his voice barely audible, as he explained the assignment. 

In all honestly, Zidane didn't blame him. The thought of killing someone, especially someone who had done no wrong, twisted his stomach into knots. However, he was a thief and a mercenary on the side, and money _was_ money, after all, and they had been offered a ridiculously large amount by this client. 

He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to assassinate the Princess, but, at the same time, Baku and the rest of Tantalus had done a lot for him over the years, and he didn't want to let his friends down. 

"What should I do?" He moaned aloud, rubbing at his temple with a gloved hand.

His answer came, in the form of a shrill, wordless but decidedly feminine scream. Zidane swallowed the lump that had formed in the back of his throat, fingering the leather sheath that held his dagger. Whoever it had been screamed again, louder, only this time he was able to make out the words. _'Help…? Was that it?'_

It sounded close. The blonde boy broke into a run, trying to follow the sound. 

**…To Be Continued…**

**Author's Notes:** Boring, short, uneventful chapter but next one will be better! And longer! I promise! 


	3. Chapter Three

**Change of Heart**

**Chapter Three:**

**Without Words**

Zidane stopped when he saw the girl. She couldn't have been the one who had screamed, he realized, studying her. 

The young woman appeared to be his age, but the air she carried with her made her seem much older. She was sitting on a low, flat slab of gray rock, her narrow shoulders hunched and slender hands folded in her lap. She did not move as he approached, she was far too still...

She was not beautiful, but showed signs of having been, once upon a time.

A long slash, crusted with dried blood, traveled from her collar bone across her sternum and past the collar of her tunic, marring her pale skin. Faded violet bruises were along her thin arms, there were still-bloody crescents where someone's fingernails had dug into her flesh. Her dark, chin-length hair looked as if it had been cut very quickly with a dull knife and no mirror. 

The girl's clothes spoke of wealth, tattered as they were. A tunic and breeches, both made of soft, elegant silk, dyed orange and embroidered with gold. The sleeveless tunic she wore had no shirt beneath it; it was sewn to close around her thin frame, to be both elegant and stylish in warm weather. The garments were ripped in torn in places, but they had little of the dirt and dried blood that clung to the girl. 

It was as if she was more concerned about getting her clothes dirty than herself…

'…or like she thought she was already dirty…' The thought came unbidden into Zidane's mind, and try is he might, it would not allow itself to be dismissed. 

"Are you alright?"

The girl brought her gaze up. Her left cheek had a faint pink mark on it, her right eye blackened and swollen to the point that he doubted she could see from it. The one eye he could make out was the color of that fashionable new delicacy called chocolate and flecked with honey-gold in places. Almost abruptly, she looked back at the ground and shook her head slightly in a gesture that meant 'no.'

"Do you need help?" 

Again, the girl looked up, but this time she did not focus on his face, rather looked blankly into the distance. Her face was a careful display of no interest. 

"Can you talk?" The golden-haired youth tried softly. 

She kept looking up at the sky. 

That moment, with the unobstructed view of her throat, was when he noticed for the first time, the series of angry red sores around her pale, slender neck.

***

It seemed to happen in a haze. 

Zidane had little memory of assuring the girl that he was there to help her, or leading her to the hotel, both of which had taken a long while. The girl still hadn't spoken – he assumed the damage to her neck had hurt her voice in a way – and had recoiled at any touch. 

She had walked behind him along the dusty road, her face focused on the ground, and her pace slow, as if she was being lead to her death. 

Zidane didn't know why he was taking her, except for perhaps a want for repentance, even before he killed.

He vaguely remembered guiding her slowly through the – thankfully, nearly empty - tavern part of the inn, and up the rickety wooden staircase. 

Quite clearly, he recalled, however, how she had shaken, her un-bruised eye wide and perhaps her marked one as well, when he lead her into his room. She had not said a word, merely stood, and trembling frantically, until he guaranteed her that he meant her no harm, and made sure she understood the purpose of their being two pallets for sleeping. 

He also remembered giving her a wet cloth from the tin washbowl on the table, along with a small jar of a healing paste, and waiting in the hallway until he thought she was finished – the cut along her torso seemed fairly deep. 

He wasn't sure why he had done any of that. 

He remember clearest of all, how fitfully she had tossed and turned – clad only in a plain linen chemise,[1] her clothes folded messily on the floor – as she slept.

***

Nina walked into the kitchen, stifling a yawn. Sitting on a low stool in front of the hearth, where a blazing fire was already going, was that strange, seemingly mute girl Zidane had brought in with him last night. The swelling on the girl's eye had gone down already gone down and it looked like the small, thin cut on her cheek was beginning to close – Nina's fingers wrapped around the two strips of intersecting metal on the chain around her neck and crossed herself. [2] There were few hopes for the girl if she got an infection.

Nina forced a smile, though disturbed the solemnity of the older girl's gaze. "Good morning. Did you light the fire?"

The stranger looked up, and nodded. Whether as a 'yes' or as a greeting, Nina did not know.

Nina continued to smile, though it had probably degraded into a grimace with the implied rejection. "Are you hungry?" She asked and paused for the non-verbal response, before heading over to lift a dark, earthenware jug by the door. "Is goat milk alright? If you're from the city…"  The girl looked blank, and Nina growled softly in frustration, the situation not one she had ever been in before. "Do you know how to write?"  She went into her sleeping room, slightly surprised when the stranger affirmed. 

Nina removed a scrolled, ornate brass key from her pocket, and opened the lock to her small steamer trunk, causing the scent of lavender sachets to overwhelm her, along with memories of happier times.

She sifted through, looking for her few luxuries that had not been sold. She felt slightly guilty as she picked the plain, almost crude, every day wear that Angelo's wife, Cassandra, had made for her, and laid her carefully folded clothes on the floor until she hit her few treasures. 

Near the bottom, there was a soft veil made of pink silk gauze, and a strange, thin robe and thick sash of the same fabric. Her father had sent them to her, from his second-to-last voyage, but Nina refrained from wearing the outfit, though she loved the way it looked and felt, the comfortable fabric caressing her and the frosty, nearly transparent pink lending a rosy hue to her pallor. Her mother hated the attention the successful merchant lavished on his daughter. 

"Papa…" Nina whispered, blinking away tears rapidly, as she set the robe and veil down, along with the jewelry that came with it. Aside went a dozen linen handkerchiefs – lace-trimmed was impractical, and silk, although pretty and expensive, had never been very absorbent. Her embroidery hoop, still with a needle stabbed through the center, framed by the half-completed pattern of roses and hummingbirds. She sighed, knowing she would never again have that life. 

'_Our purpose in this life is to be productive and useful._' She reminded herself sternly. _'Not to indulge in silly pastimes.'_

She unwrapped a sheet, and pulled out what she had been looking for; a blank writing book, a quill, and a small bottle of ink. Nina lovingly placed her old things into her trunk, then, more haphazardly, put in her plainer clothes.

She grabbed a pair of dark breeches, a clean chemise, and a baggy, undyed shirt for the girl sitting in the kitchen – she had a feeling that the orange silk was the only thing the other girl had. She ran back in to the kitchen, and dropped to the floor by the hearth, placing the clothes on the stranger's lap. 

The girl's lips twisted into the shadow of a smile, and she looked around nervously before assuring herself that the door to the inn was closed, as was the door leading outside, and the shutters were securely latched. Nina understood as well, bare skin was frowned upon, and was about to offer the girl to change in her room when the brunette  pulled off her top, and shed her pants, slowly undoing the hook-and-eye pattern on her chemise. 

Her first thought was concern, until she saw that the cut on the girls sternum wasn't as long as it had appeared when Zidane brought her in, it wasn't even all too deep, it had only been messy. 

Her second was jealousy as another inch of pale flesh was revealed, '_God, please just half of that…_'

And then, Nina swallowed, or attempted to, her throat had gone oddly dry. Never before had she seen the bare skin of another, it was strictly forbidden, in more affluent places, even same-sex bathhouses had separate baths. Nina remembered a day in the city with her fanatically religious grandmother. There had been a woman, dressed in red satin, who gave coquettish looks to all who passed. Nina had fallen in front of the woman, only to be yanked roughly up by her grandmother, who had always been spry for her age. '_The whore's house is on the way to hell._' 

'The devil saves the hottest flames for those that lust.' Nina froze. Oh, God. Her fingers tightened around her cross pendant. 

This couldn't be… lust? Not for a girl! She squirmed uncomfortably, her face flushed, and she looked away, risking a peek only once she thought enough time had passed and  saw the older girl was dressed, and, kneeling on the floor, looking at her almost curiously. 

Nina swallowed again, assuring herself it probably wasn't lust – it was not half of what she used to feel for the handsome stable boy at the manor, who worked bare-chested in summer heat and always let his hand linger on hers for just a second too long when helping her. While that admission was certainly dangerous, it was not as forbidden as…

She looked at the book, and saw that the girl had written something, in flowing, elegant script: _I am sorry that I cannot speak._

Nina's handwriting looked childish and jagged next to it: **Can you talk?**

_I am physically able to, but I would prefer not to._

**Why?**

_It is a long story._

**I like stories.**

_As do I._

**You are not from around here, are you?**

_I don't remember where I came from._

**You don't?**

_I am not sure of my bearings._

"Oh…" Nina pushed back her hair, "Before I forget…" **What's your name? **She scrawled. Words on paper seemed easier.

_You may call me whatever you like._

"One last question…" The blonde murmured. "Did anyone…touch you… indecently?"

The girl shook her head vehemently in the negative, and added to the page. _No. _Her script was underlined and larger than her previous words.

The door leading outside opened, and Angelo strode in, his clothes slightly rumpled as if he had slept in them, but his eyes showed no sign of sleep, for there were slight rings beneath them, but he seemed as well-rested and jovial as ever. "G'morning, Ni'" He flashed his sister a slightly sleepy smile, a few strands of silvery white-blonde that had fallen from his ponytail framing his chiseled features, and then he stopped abruptly. "Who's she?"

"A friend of mine," Nina answered in a tone that booked no further discussion, and smoothed her hair. When had she become a liar? She always prided herself on being direct and blunt. "Her name is…" her eyes flashed to the cut she knew was beneath the high collared shirt. "Dagger."

Angelo, meanwhile, had recovered enough from the shock of seeing such a battered girl in the kitchen. "Well," he said finally, calm and smooth as ever, and, taking the dark-haired girl's hand in his, sketched a half bow, bringing the hand the hand halfway to his lips. He would never waste his full charm on a mere friend of his sister's, and for that, Nina was glad. "It is a pleasure meeting you, Dagger."

She looked alarmed, and pulled away as soon as was polite.

Angelo misinterpreted. "Shy, hmm? Don't worry, we're all friends here." He crossed the kitchen quickly in quick strides, "Sis! Can I talk to you! Somewhere… in private?"

***  
  


Perched wordlessly on her stool again, Garnet watched, tucking her legs on the bottom rung. A week ago, she would have been chatting elegantly with a random court lady, both of them dressed in the latest fashions and now… now Princess Garnet was dead. 

Her hand did not tremble as she wrote quietly in the journal. 

I accept the name Dagger.

She did not know how she felt about being this Dagger, this girl with out a past or identity of her own, but she did know one thing.

After what happened to her, she did not want to talk. 

Not ever again.

TBC.

Author's Notes: This was dedicated with love to Fox-chan.

So! Time for soap-opera ish rhetoric questions… will Garnet – er. Dagger - ever talk again? Will I ever stop writing these crappy, dull chapters?


	4. Chapter Four

**Nina lay on the elaborate bed, staring at the painted ceiling. Her plain, rose nightgown was becoming crushed, but she rarely expected people to see in her nightclothes. Ever a merchant's daughter, she noticed that the crimson fabrics she lounged on were velvet, at the very least three hundred gil per yard. "Cassandra," She began, knowing it was a great breach of proper etiquette to call someone of a nobler class, even though only just four years her senior, anything but 'my lady' or 'my lord' but the woman had requested she be treated as a sibling.**

**"Yes?" The young woman asked, running an ivory brush through her heavy, dark curls. She was standing in her underclothes before a looking-glass, critically examining her beautiful reflection. "You are to meet my second cousin today, no?" Her tone became lower, mischievous and conspiring, "He seemed quite enamored with your picture."**

**"Cassandra…" Nina's breath came out in a soft sigh, "I'm twelve."**

**"So?" Her powdered face was aloof, "One is never too young to learn how to be a lady. Do you like the embroideries? It is custom to present your lover with tokens, showing some of one's skills, where I come from…"**

**She examined the hoop. Well-made linen, silvery thread, stitching out hummingbirds and roses. Instead of answering, Nina focused on the bottle in the woman's slender hands. "What is that?" She asked.**

**"Perfume.**** It's lavender." Cassandra lifted the dress draped over a chair, pulling it over her head. Robotically, Nina climbed to her feet and moved to help. **

**She sniffed the air, twisting the sash tightly around the woman's waist. "Could I borrow some?" She asked, daring to hope.**

**"I think it is a bit old for you, dear heart…" **

**"'twas worth asking."**** The blonde girl murmured.**

**If it wasn't for the fact that she knew more than half of the things that came out of the mouth of her brother's fiancée were false, Nina might, she reflected, care for Cassandra's company.**

* * *

It was an impulsive thing. She threw her arms around her brother, burying her face in his shirt, made from ebony silk. _Silk?_ _But…._ She shook the thought away. _'It just looks new, it must be well cared for.' _Her brother had always returned from his travels, smelling of spices and fresh air, but now she breathed in the scents of cheap liquor, and … opium…?

"What have you been doing?" She mumbled into his shirt.

He pushed her away, "One does expect manners in children."

She stiffened, "Good for one. Take care of the inn while I'm out." Her words had developed the slightly clipped manner of talking that seemed common to Trenton. As she walked out, she remembered the last scent, buried far beneath opium and alcohol.

_'Lavender perfume…'_

**A/N: Chapter dedicated to Fox, for her support of my OC's. **


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